No More Room
by Ohka Breynekai
Summary: When Arthur repeals the ban on magic, the challenges are greater than he ever imagined. Seeing Arthur's struggle, Merlin decides that Arthur no longer needs his manservant. The warlock "leaves" Camelot and lets Emrys take his place at Arthur's side, sacrificing "Merlin" in the process. (Post-Camlann; AU - Arthur lives, Merlin's magic is still a secret.)
1. Chapter 1

Arthur swayed on his feet, black dots sparkling his vision. He strained to see the figure in front of him, nearing, sword raised for another attack. The sounds of battle still echoed about the king, but even clouded by the fog of Arthur's blood loss, he could tell that the noises were fewer. The Battle of Camlann was nearing its end, and Camelot had won.

Neither Arthur nor his knights could fully claim the victory. While valiant, the warriors of Camelot had been hopelessly outnumbered. And then the white dragon had attacked, no where near as large or as deadly as the Great Dragon that plagued the citadel those years ago, but still a formidable enemy, destroying lines of men in its flame.

No, Camelot had been losing, until the old sorcerer had appeared on the cliff. Tall, with a long white beard, robed in red, wielding a staff - Arthur had immediately recognized the man as Dragoon the Great, the sorcerer who had once infiltrated Camelot and taken the blame for Guinevere, ultimately saving her life. The sorcerer who had killed his father.

But, neither was that correct. A memory tugged at Arthur, of a wounded Gaius laying in the physician's chambers: _"I chose to protect him. I feared you would seek him out and execute him. That would've been a grave mistake. The sorcerer did not kill your father. Uther was dying. He tried everything in his power to save him." _Arthur remembered how his father had briefly recovered before being taken by death, and how distraught the sorcerer had seemed. Of course the sorcerer would have been distraught, for he had everything to lose. The fate of the entire magical community was hanging on the man's shoulders - what could the man have gained through failure, besides an obviously undesired revenge?

Here, the sorcerer had decided to help Arthur, to help all of Camelot. Arthur was wrong to think him an enemy.

The memory continued to rear through the mess of Arthur's blood-stained senses: _"Contained within this great kingdom is a rich variety of people with a range of different beliefs. I'm not the only one seeking to protect you. There are many more who believe in the world you are trying to create. One day you will learn, Arthur. One day you will understand... just how much they've done for you."_

Gaius had known. He had known that the sorcerer was a protector all along. Part of Arthur was bitter at the knowledge that Gaius had been actively consorting with sorcerers, but the other part knew that it was long past the time for thinking that all magic was evil. Druids were proof of that. As was Dragoon. Hell, even Gaius had practiced magic at some point in the past, and Arthur trusted Gaius as he would his father. More so, when Arthur thought back to the recent encounter with Uther's ghost.

Magic, like any sort of power, would take a hateful person's heart and twist it with ideas of strength and right. As had happened with Morgana. As had happened with Mordred.

Arthur blinked again against the black spots in his vision, holding a hand to where Mordred's sword had sliced his side. If the king had not dodged when he did, the blow would have been fatal. Even so, Arthur was losing blood, and he was weakened by the hours of nonstop fighting. Mordred looked as fresh as he did walking on to the training fields each morning. Except in those days, the knight's face would be lit by a smile, not contorted with anger.

Arthur had known Mordred was a Druid - the very same he and Morgana had rescued all those years ago. But, the man had shown valor, and Arthur was trying, really trying to view magic in a different light. If not all magic, at least the Druids, who were a peaceful people. He reached out to Mordred, made him a knight.

How had Morgana snared him so easily? Or had it been the plan all along? Had Arthur been deceived once again, another in the long line of betrayals? Morgana, Agravaine, now Mordred.

Merlin had known. The manservant hadn't trusted neither Agravaine nor Mordred, always showing an unjustified dislike for the boy that had driven Arthur insane. It did not seem so farfetched now. But Arthur did not want to think about Merlin. Merlin, who had abandoned Arthur when the man needed him most. Merlin, whose advice - albeit given in a dream - had saved the knights of Camelot from certain doom, revealing the weakness in the army's flank. Merlin, who would not be by his side when he breathed his last, to whom Arthur would never be able to apologize.

The young man standing before Arthur grinned hatefully, swinging his blade in a wide circle and raising it to chest level, both hands wrapped around the hilt and elbows aloft. Arthur raised his own sword, fighting back the bitter feelings and the exhaustion. He did not think he could win, but he would die fighting. He was a Pendragon, after all.

"_ARTHUR!_"

The voice was guttural and desperate and echoed against the walls of the pass. Before Arthur could turn his head to look for the source, Mordred was blasted off of his feet by a bolt of blue lightning. The druid's body slammed into a nearby rock and fell to the ground. It took no inspection to see that the man was dead. His armor smoked from the heat of the attack.

Feeling slightly numb, Arthur turned. The old sorcerer was striding through the fallen bodies of the battlefield, crystal-topped staff still glowing from the attack. Soon, he stood not three feet from the king.

Arthur swallowed and raised his sword on instinct, but his arms were as weary as his soul and shook with the effort. He stared into the sorcerer's concerned eyes, recognizing their clear blue color. Then he dropped to his knees as his strength gave out.

"Arthur!" the old man rasped, rushing to his side and catching the king before he could fall, dropping his staff in the process. "You're wounded."

Arthur resisted the urge to roll his eyes and drop some snide comment - _Thank you, I had no idea _- and the urge to flinch away from the man's touch. It did not take much energy, for Arthur was quickly fading and needed most of his strength to stay awake. He simply grunted out, "Hospital tents."

The old sorcerer shook his head. "You're bleeding far too much. We'd never make it in time. I'll heal you."

"Like you healed my father?" Arthur's words were bitter but carried no real hatred behind them.

The old sorcerer gripped Arthur's shoulders and looked straight into his eyes. "My lord, Agravaine had placed a necklace, sent by Morgana, around Uther's neck that was enchanted to turn healing magic against itself. I should have checked before I began, and I do take the blame for that, but know that I never wanted to kill your father. Now, your life is in my hands, and you _must_ trust me. You have too much yet to live for. You _must live_."

The news did not hit Arthur as hard as it might have - _Morgana and Agravaine killed my father. Of course._ The king observed the magic-user's entreating expression, the desperation those two eyes held. There was no way this man could want Arthur dead. If that were so, it would already have been done. If that were so, Dragoon never would have come to Camelot's aid.

"Very well," Arthur croaked, and the sorcerer's expression broke like dawn over the hill. A grin pulled back the many wrinkles, and his eyes twinkled with moisture.

"Sire."

The old man helped Arthur to his feet and led him to a clear patch of ground near the cliff side where Arthur could recline more comfortably. With deft hands, the sorcerer's long fingers began removing Arthur's plate and chain mail. Arthur looked on curiously.

"You've done this before," he observed.

The man shrugged, not meeting the king's eyes. "I've been a manservant."

"For a knight?"

"One of the greatest."

Arthur hissed as at last his wound was revealed. Both his padded jacket and shirt were ripped through and soaked with blood. The cut was deep, and Arthur looked away before his stomach could turn; he never enjoyed the sight of his own blood.

The old sorcerer's face fell, looking angry. "Arthur..."

"What?"

Dragoon did not answer, merely holding out a palm in the direction of Arthur's injury. It hovered just inches away from the offending gash. He began speaking, a stream of mumbled, foreign words, brows furrowed in concentration. Arthur realized the words were in the language of the Old Religion just as Dragoon's blue eyes flashed gold, meaning the sorcerer was about to use magic - _on the King of Camelot_.

Arthur gasped when a feeling of warmth gripped him, spreading from the wound throughout his body. The site of the wound tingled almost painfully. He looked down and was awestruck to see his skin stitching itself back together. "By the gods!" In seconds, the only trace of the injury was some bruising and a pink line of scar tissue.

The tension dropped from Dragoon, who let out a long breath. "It worked!"

"You say that as though you're surprised!"

"Well, I'm generally rubbish at healing spells, so-"

"You-!" Arthur growled, lunging at the man, only to fall forward onto his face.

The old sorcerer cackled. "Never would have let me do the spell had you known, would you, my lord? Now, while I've treated the wound, understand that you're not healed completely. You still need to rest."

"Great," Arthur muttered, pushing himself back into a sitting position against the wall of the cliff. It was true; his body still felt like lead, the hours of fighting and the blood loss weighing on him. He gazed around himself, taking in the corpses of Saxons and Camelot knights alike. He was heartened by the fact that there were considerably more Saxons than knights, but his heart ached whenever he met a familiar face.

"You saved us," he whispered, not meeting Dragoon's eyes. Dragoon was silent. "I made you a promise once. In exchange for the life of a Pendragon. I would like to honor that now."

"You don't mean-"

"I do. As of this moment, the ban on magic is lifted. You're a free man." Arthur turned, smiling, to the old man and was shocked to see the tears flowing freely over his face. He looked downright pained. "You should be pleased!"

"I am," the old sorcerer choked out. "I have long dreamed of this day... You don't even know..." Dragoon grasped Arthur's hands in his withered ones. "Thank you, sire. Thank you."

They both looked around at the sudden arrival of voices. Nearby, knights of Camelot were rounding a wall of rock. Arthur recognized Gwaine, Leon, and Percival among them, and relief filled him to see his friends unharmed. The sorcerer heaved to his feet, leaning against the staff for support.

"You're in good hands, my lord. I leave you now."

"You won't return to Camelot with us?"

"I have business to attend to yet. Arthur... take care." The old sorcerer hobbled away, robes and beard swinging with his steps. As he passed Mordred's fallen form, he paused, frowning, and bent to pluck the sword from the traitor's fingers. He looked over his shoulder at Arthur, who was still reclined against the rock, lacking the strength to pick himself off the ground. "Mind if I have this?"

Arthur raised a questioning brow but lifted his hands in a surrendering gesturing. "Do as you please." Although he had no idea what use a sorcerer of this man's caliber had for a sword, he was not about to argue.

Dragoon smiled again at Arthur - yet this time there was an edge to the expression, as though some quality of cruelty or ruthlessness was teeming just beneath the surface. It was conflicted so with the warm tears of before that it sent a shiver down Arthur's spine. Without another word, the old man drifted away and had disappeared by the time Arthur's men arrived.

* * *

The group of knights picked their way slowly across the battlefield, all the men sober but in good spirits, either talking amongst themselves quietly or enjoying the companionable silence. The king leaned against Sir Percival for support, again wearing his armor and insistent on walking into camp. Arthur wanted the knights to see their leader standing strong, but he also did not want Guinevere to see her husband so beaten down. _Better than dead..._

Arthur's eyes kept being drawn to Gwaine, who was frowning at the ground as though lost in thought. It wasn't like the knight to be so quiet. Arthur realized then that he hadn't seen this particular knight since before leaving Camelot.

"How long have you been with us, Gwaine?" Arthur called out. "I don't recall seeing you last night."

Gwaine looked up, brows raised. "That would be because you didn't. I was with Merlin."

"Merlin? Is he back, then?"

"I couldn't say. I took him as far as a cave in the Valley of the Fallen Kings before he sent me on my way. Said he'd be perfectly safe once he "found what he was looking for", though he never would tell me what that was."

"You left Merlin alone in the Valley of the Fallen Kings? What was he even _doing_ there? He was supposed to be looking for ingredients for Gaius! There are bandits everywhere in that place - he'll be killed!" _If he hasn't been already..._ The thought rose unbidden in Arthur's mind, causing his stomach to fill with an icy cold, replacing the warm feeling of being alive he had had only seconds before. He remembered the last thing he had said to Merlin - his stomach twisted even further. If that were the last thing he ever got to say to Merlin...

The frown on Gwaine's face deepened. "He insisted he would be fine and that I return to you. That I trust him. And though I trust Merlin more than anyone in the world, I can't help but feel worried."

"Obviously! You should have stayed with him. He's completely vulnerable."

"He's a whole lot stronger than you think, sire." Gwaine's words veiled a threat. Naturally - Arthur knew Merlin was Gwaine's closest friend, the only reason he had stayed in Camelot all these years.

"Those herbs or mushrooms or whatever better have been bloody well important," Arthur growled.

As they neared the encampment, a figure came running to Arthur, brown curls flying behind her. "Arthur!" Guinevere cried, pulling her husband into her arms. "You're alive! Not that I thought you wouldn't be, I just-"

Arthur interrupted her with a kiss, which broke into a smile. For one minute, his worry for Merlin was displaced. He stepped away from Percival's support and cradled her face in his hands. "I'm back," he said and pulled her again into an embrace. Guinevere buried her face in Arthur's shoulder, smothering her sobs. When she had calmed down, Arthur gently broke their hold. He rubbed his thumbs along her cheek to clear the trails of water, and together, they entered camp, the knights following close behind their sovereigns.

Gaius was busy calling orders to the maidservants who had volunteered in the hospital tents. Guinevere looked up at Arthur apologetically and hurried to return to the side of Camelot's injured. Arthur let her go and, persisting at staying aright, approached Gaius.

"Sire!" the physician cried, a grin breaking his tired face. If Arthur was not mistaken, he would say Gaius sounded _surprised_ to see him return.

"Gaius," Arthur said, mirroring a similarly weary grin. "The Saxons have been defeated."

"That sorcerer arrived just in time," Gaius replied, casting Arthur a calculating look that was not lost on the king. The physician was testing the waters, trying to see how Arthur felt about magic's involvement in their victory. Arthur remembered that Gaius had been a sorcerer before the Great Purge, so of course he would be interested in the king's reaction.

"In more ways than one," the king acceded. "He saved me from a death at Mordred's hand and," Arthur's fingers moved unconsciously to his side, "healed a critical wound."

"You are in his debt."

Arthur nodded. "Nothing can repay what he has done for me, or for all of Camelot, but I hope what I gave him will be enough. I repealed the ban on magic."

Gaius choked on his breath and broke into a fit of coughing. Arthur patted the man's back, expression concerned. He was only barely aware of the gaping knights behind him. "Gaius, are you alright?"

The physician waved off the king. "Yes, yes, I'm fine. I was only surprised. Sire, I think that is a fine repayment for this man's actions."

"Do you approve?"

"Entirely, my lord."

At Gaius's answer, Arthur loosed a breath he did not realize he'd been holding. "Good. I'm glad." Looking about the camp, taking in the sight of wounded men and busy nurses, Arthur realized who still had not greeted him, and his earlier worries resurfaced. "Where's Merlin?"

"Merlin?" Gaius repeated. "Sire, I'm not sure. I haven't seen him since we arrived in Camlann."

All warmth dropped to Arthur's feet. It was not long before he made up his mind and turned to his knights. "We must go after him."

The king's prized knights - Leon, Gwaine, and Percival - looked at him and all nodded without argument. They were all close to Merlin, and the thought of him hurt or dead was more than anyone could bear.

"Sire, Morgana's body has not been found," said Leon. "She may still be alive."

"Then we make haste with due care."

"Surely you must rest," said Gaius.

Arthur shook his head. "I cannot rest while Merlin is missing. Gaius, I trust you to continue your hard work. Do whatever you need to treat my men. Even..." He let the word hang, implied. _Even magic_.

"Sire." Gaius inclined his head. "Please, bring my ward home."

* * *

Gwaine led the king, Percival, and Leon - a small group, it was decided, would more readily go unnoticed by any lingering Saxons or worse, Morgana - to the Valley of the Fallen Kings. They rode in silence, each confined to their thoughts. Arthur's mind swirled with both worry for Merlin and something akin to shock at what he had said to Dragoon at Camlann, and then admitted to his men not long after: he had repealed the ban on magic.

The encounter with his father's ghost those weeks ago rose like bile in his memory. For a long time, Arthur had been living in his father's shadow, but slowly he had been inching out from under it as he learned to follow his heart. The choices he had made contrary to his father's beliefs always contributed to Arthur's own happiness. If the old king's legacy was a shadow, then Guinevere and his Round Table knights were the sun. It took that confrontation with Uther's spirit for Arthur to fully realize how much he did not want to be like his father.

Until now, all of his dealings with magic had been fair, in Arthur's opinion. He no longer executed sorcerers for simply having magic; everyone was promised a fair trial; he had sworn to make peace with the druids. Yes, his dealings with magic thus far had been quite different than the rule his father pursued.

Even so, he had never once stopped thinking that magic was evil. He had nearly considered it when Mordred lay dying, when the priestesses of the Triple Goddesses had made that offer. But, that was more of a hope than a serious conviction, a want to justify the option laying before him. What proof did Arthur have of magic being good? Besides Dragoon, he had only ever seen it used for evil. Magic was what created Morgana, after all.

It was not as if Arthur could take back his word, not after everything the old sorcerer had done for them. But, the terror of the reality was beginning to crush down on the king, and he realized he had no idea what he was going to do. How did he reintroduce magic to the people of Camelot, who all feared it and hated it? How would he protect those magic-users who would surely be persecuted when they came out of hiding? Could he still punish magic and seem just? Could he follow his promise whole-heartedly, when something akin to hatred for magic still rested in that heart?

And where was Merlin?

The cave was easily found, as Gwaine had committed its location to memory. Yet Arthur felt like the cave would have otherwise remained hidden, regardless of any amount searching. Why had Merlin thought to come here? Better yet, was this really where Gaius had sent the young man?

They cautiously approached the mouth of the cave, watching its gaping black entrance. Rocks were strewn about the opening...

"...almost as if they were blasted outward," Leon remarked, studying their positions.

"It wasn't like this when I left," said Gwaine.

"There was a cave-in," Arthur decided. "But it obviously didn't keep in whoever was here."

"You think Merlin could have done this?" asked Leon.

"Perhaps he wasn't alone," replied the king, approaching the mouth of the cave, Excalibur raised. The knights followed warily after him.

The cave was not as dark as it appeared from the outside. Its walls, floor, and ceiling were spattered with small crystals, possibly quartz, that seemed to emit their own luminance. Arthur was glad for this, as it meant there was no need for a make-shift torch, but it unnerved him, too. This place felt, for lack of any other descriptor, _magical_.

"Is it just me, or do you notice a significant lack of anything growing here?" Gwaine muttered to his comrades. "No herbs to be gathered, no fungi to be plucked?"

"Perhaps he needed one of these crystals?" said Percival.

"And what would he do with a crystal?" said Gwaine. He shook his head, sweat-matted locks swaying in the dimly lit chamber. "I don't understand you, mate," he whispered. "What were you doing here?"

A minute later, the knights were stepping into a large chamber, crowded with glowing crystals of various sizes, some as small as coins, others like boulders. The feeling of magic Arthur had first perceived was strong here, almost tangible, as if the air were electrified.

"What is this place?" said Gwaine. The knights had lowered their swords in favor of gaping at the huge shards of mineral.

"Stay on your guard," Arthur ordered, approaching the center of the room and turning in a slow circle. "And don't touch anything. We don't know what these crystals can do."

When no other persons or creatures were apparent, Arthur felt it was safe to call out, "Merlin!" The name echoed off of the walls, perhaps even off of the many facets of the crystals. There was no response.

"I've heard that sorcerers can use crystals for scrying," Percival commented, tapping his sword-tip against one of the larger crystals. It rang, its tone enough to put the king's teeth on edge.

"I said don't touch anything," Arthur snapped. "It could be dangerous. And what do you mean, scrying?"

"Scrying is when a sorcerer casts a spell on a reflective surface to see what is happening over long distances," Percival explained. "My grandmother once told me about it."

"There is definitely magic here," the king said. "I would not be surprised if sorcerers use this cave... Merlin!"

"Sire," Leon said, placing a hand on his liege lord's shoulder. "I do not think he's here."

"I fear you're right. Merlin was here, and somebody blasted away those rocks. Perhaps we can find a trail."

They returned to the mouth of the cave, and Arthur felt his tension leave him the more distance he put between himself and the crystals. He hadn't realized how tight his lungs had been until it was suddenly easier to breathe. "Spread out," he commanded. "Look for tracks leading away from the cave, and make sure they aren't Gwaine's!"

After several minutes of searching, Gwaine called out, "Here!" The other knights converged on the spot.

"These are his? You're sure?" Arthur pressed.

"They surely aren't mine," the knight replied.

The trail led straight out of the valley and was easily traceable; whoever had been walking here clearly did not care if they were followed. There was a wealth of broken branches and deep footfalls, as well as a curious indentation along the right side of the tracks, reminiscent of a walking stick. Suspicion tugged at Arthur's thoughts.

At the crest of the valley, the footprints turned into hoof prints. "He continued on from here on horseback," the king murmured.

"This _is_ where we left our horses," Gwaine said, nodding.

"Then let us retrieve ours."

The king and his knights chased the trail across the moor. Arthur tried to keep his thoughts focused on the hunt, blocking out suspicions and doubts and fears that threatened to invade. He did not want to question what Merlin had been doing in that magic-ridden cave, when the manservant should have been by his master's side. He did not want to wonder what force had blown the rocks away, or the fact that he and his knights were currently making their way back towards Camlann.

In short time, the knights came upon the perpetrator of the tracks, a brown horse tied to a gnarled tree. "This is Merlin's!" said Leon, and they all jumped down from their mounts. Arthur approached the mare, who calmly greeted him, snuffling at his outstretched hand. The blonde royal rubbed his hand absently over the horse's snout, looking about for any sign of the manservant. The man's bags were still strapped to the saddle - even his canteen had been left behind.

"Sire, more footprints," said Leon, pointing towards the cliff nearby. Arthur and the other knights rushed to follow them to the edge of the ground.

And Arthur found himself looking out across the battlefield of Camlann. The corpses stretched beneath them, dragonfire still burning in the darkening air. From this spot, Arthur could see the entire pass, a perfect vantage point. It was exactly this spot where Dragoon had first appeared, calling off the white dragon and raining blue lightning on Camelot's enemies. Arthur had seen the man here.

"The old sorcerer..." the king whispered. "Then where did Merlin go?"

"Arthur?" a voice called from behind he group, as if on cue. Arthur spun around. There, tending to his horse, was the black-haired manservant, looking dirty and haggard, but entirely in one piece.

"_Mer_lin!" Arthur stood, gaping for several seconds, until his jaw righted itself and his expression dropped into one of anger. He stormed up to the other man, who flinched and curled away. "Where in the _world_ have you been? You realize we just chased you across the wilderness - only it was more like a wild goose chase, seeing as you were _here this whole time!_"

"Sire, I... I can, uh..."

"Vital ingredients, Merlin? Is that what you call seeking out a sorcerer? Vital ingredients?"

"Seeking out a - what?"

Arthur rolled his eyes. "I know you're the one who brought Dragoon to Camelot - it's obvious! We followed his tracks here all the way from that crystal cave. He even rode your horse!"

"I can explain," Merlin stammered, eyes not meeting Arthur's, thin fingers twisting together.

Arthur took both of his hands and placed them on Merlin's shoulders, not unlike what Dragoon had done to him only several hours earlier. Expression stern, he said, "Merlin, do you realize that you just saved Camelot?"

"I... Wait, I did what?"

Arthur laughed, grinning at Merlin's pale and befuddled face. He patted the young manservant on the shoulder, nearly knocking the smaller man down. "If you hadn't gone to ask that sorcerer for help, we would surely have met our doom. I understand why you lied to me - I never would have let you go if you had told me your true intentions. Merlin, what you did was very brave. We owe you our lives, as much as we do Dragoon."

The other knights gathered around Merlin, similarly patting his back and offering their compliments. Arthur laughed again, amazed that he had ever doubted his friend's loyalty or courage, glad he now had the chance to amend his cruel words from before. "Come, let us return to the camp!"

* * *

_**Next update: In my heart of hearts, I intend to update this story on Tuesday, Feb. 18.**_


	2. Chapter 2

Arthur was glad to have his servant and friend back at his side, cooking his meals, repairing his armor, running messages that Arthur was too weak to carry himself. The battle and the following search had been all the king could handle; he had been bed-ridden in his tent ever since returning to camp. His able-bodied knights, meanwhile, had been scouring the battlefield for survivors and preparing the dead, while the wounded were being treated by Gaius. Guinevere still wanted to help the injured, a tenacity that Arthur admired her for, though it meant he rarely saw his wife now.

The queen had been pleased to see Merlin when they returned, and when she learned the story of his deeds, she seemed satisfied, as though certain suspicions had been confirmed. Arthur would have to discuss it with her another time.

"You shouldn't have come after me," Merlin grumbled, for the umpteenth time, as he unnecessarily ran a whetstone along Excalibur's never-dull blade. "Didn't that sorcerer tell you to rest? But what do you do? Do you rest? No, you go riding your horse across the kingdom and back."

"_Mer_lin, I thought you were _dead_."

"Shows how much you know, doesn't it?"

"I regret ever having praised you," Arthur muttered, quickly growing tired of his bed.

Ever since he was reunited with his manservant, he couldn't help but notice the bitterness hanging around the young man. Whenever he approached Merlin about it, the black-haired servant would shrug and say, "Oh no, I'm fine," in a tone that suggested that he certainly was not fine. Arthur could not begin to imagine what was wrong with Merlin. Camlann was won, their friends were all breathing, and Merlin had played a major role in helping them, winning the king's forgiveness. What else could the man want?

Then, suddenly, Arthur realized. "Are you upset because I repealed the ban on magic?"

Merlin's head snapped up, his expression puzzled. "What? _No!_ Why would I be mad about that?"

"I know how you feel about magic, Merlin." It was because of Merlin Arthur had refused to repeal the ban sooner, when he had been offered the deal to save Mordred's life. The king still remembered the expression on Merlin's face when he had said there was no place in for magic in Camelot, the tears that filled his eyes. He had rarely seen Merlin react so strongly to something.

Merlin pursed his lips and returned to polishing the sword. "I went and found that sorcerer, didn't I?"

"Yes, I've been meaning to ask you about that. How _did_ you find him?"

"Gaius."

Arthur waited for more, and when nothing came, he replied flatly, "Gaius."

"Mm-hmm. By the way," Merlin said, setting Excalibur aside and walking to Arthur's table. The infirmed king rolled his eyes at the conspicuous way his manservant was changing the subject. "You received a letter this morning."

"Thank you for telling me in such a timely fashion! How many more hours had you planned to wait? Don't you realize I'm still king of Camelot? I do have duties!"

"It's not my fault you're confined to your bed. Maybe if you had just listened to that kind old man who healed you. Quite magnanimously, if I might add. Selflessly. Philanthropically."

"Just give me the letter!" Arthur demanded, thrusting out a hand, eyes bulging. Chuckling at the king's irritation, Merlin did as asked, placing the letter into Arthur's grip before turning away to polish Arthur's armor - despite the fact Arthur had not worn it since the Battle. Half of the chores Merlin was doing today were pointless. As long as Merlin was keeping himself busy, though, Arthur didn't see the use in complaining. Boredom would likely only increase the manservant's mood.

Shoving Merlin from his mind, Arthur turned his attention to the letter. It was a simple piece of parchment, folded into thirds and sealed with red wax that looked as though it had been pressed with a rock. Frowning at the anonymity, Arthur used his knife to break the seal and unfolded the parchment.

The page was blank but for a cluster of words at its center, written in a small, graceful hand:

_The witch Morgana Pendragon is dead._

_Your loyal servant,_

_Dragoon_

Arthur blinked several times, then reread the words. And read them again. Staring blankly at the middle space, he lowered the hand with the parchment into his lap. After a minute, Merlin glanced over his shoulder at the king. "Arthur?"

"She's dead," Arthur replied, voice flat. "Morgana is dead."

Merlin lowered the breastplate and polishing cloth; his face was stony. "Oh…" he said. "How?"

"The old sorcerer… Merlin, I think I need to be alone."

"Of course, sire. I'll make sure no one enters the tent."

"I meant you, too." The king flicked his fingers toward the tent flap. "Go and, I don't know, help Gaius." And for once, the young manservant did what he was told without having to be asked twice; he wordlessly bowed, replaced the armor and cleaning supplies in their trunk, and backed out of the tent.

It was… anticlimactic, thought Arthur. For years, his half-sister, once his friend, had tormented his kingdom, robbing him of man after good man. He had lost a brother-in-law to her. He had nearly lost his wife. He had nearly lost his kingdom, and the people whom he ruled over had been plundered, time and again, in her insatiable thirst for power. Even from the battle at Camlann, the battle that was supposed to end it all, the dark witch had escaped with her life. Morgana was his bane, and yet… and yet he had not even been the one to slay her. Her death came to him on a piece of paper, etched not in her blood but in ink.

Arthur had been prepared to take her life. He had made his heart fast against the weight of the task and banished all memories of her youthful purity from his mind. Now that he would never have to strike the killing blow against her, he did not know whether to feel relieved or dissatisfied. Never had he lusted after her blood, but he had wanted her to fall at _his_ blade so that he would know she was forever dead and that the kingdom – and all the peoples of Albion – would be safe from her wrath. There had been too many close calls in the past.

Though this time, because it was Dragoon, it was probably not a close call.

The tent's entrance rustled as it was lifted, and Guinevere stepped inside. She was dressed in trousers, boots, and a fox-fur vest, hair pinned behind her head but spilling onto her face and shoulders. Her face was flushed with heat and sparkled with sweat, and her eyes were shadowed with fatigue. Camelot's queen had also been fighting for her people, giving all she had in the continuing battle for their lives.

"Merlin told me," she whispered. "Oh, Arthur." She strode forward, kicked her boots off, and curled on the bed beside her husband. He turned the letter facedown in his lap, wrapped an arm about her shoulders, and pressed his face into the top of her head. He could not cry, but Guinevere took his melancholy and wept it silently into the air.

Her tears soon dried, and for a long time they lay together, saying nothing. Arthur's fingers were twined in her hair, and hers gripped the front of his shirt. Their breaths moved in tandem.

"I love you," Guinevere said, squeezing her eyes shut. "She wanted to take you from me, and she will never get another chance." She pressed her face closer into his chest and kissed it softly. "Do not leave me again, Arthur. Promise me you will not."

Arthur closed his own eyes and turned his head away. He knew he could never make that promise, not as long as he was Camelot's foremost guardian. Instead, he said, "I want to hold a funeral ceremony for her."

Guinevere tensed, pulled back, and looked in confusion at the king. "A funeral ceremony? After everything...?"

"Morgana was once gentle and pure; she was once a girl who fought for those who were too weak to defend themselves. She would have been a kind and fair regent, had our positions been reversed. Somewhere along the way, that innocent girl died. For whatever reason, she was killed, and it is her whom I wish to mourn."

"You know I will respect your decisions," the queen replied slowly.

"But?"

"But the people of Camelot. There is no one alive who has not felt the reach of her hatred. What will they think?"

Arthur's face grew stormy; his legs itched to pace, and he fidgeted in the bed. "She was my sister. They will understand. Hell, they can celebrate her death in the taverns for all I care, and I will tell them that. I'll buy their damned ale. I want a funeral ceremony."

Guinevere lowered her head again onto his chest and sought his hand with hers. "Then it will be done."

Soon, Arthur's breathing evened and his muscles lost their tension. His head lolled and snores rose into the air. Guinevere, smiling, nestled into the crook of his neck, closed her eyes, and shortly was taken by her own exhaustion.

* * *

They found her body the next morning.

The air was gray with pre-dawn light, and the edges of the tents and the knights blurred in the haze. One of the sentries had been turning from one row of tents to another when he saw a smudge of white against the single tree in their camp, the only light in the _uhttid_, which swallowed even torchlight.

He crept closer. The details came to him in stages: it was a person, lying on the ground among the roots; it was a woman in a white dress, with white skin and long black hair; it was _the witch_.

By the time Arthur arrived, the sun had crested the hills and was spilling into the valley. A group of murmuring knights, maidservants and manservants were clustered around the tree, so absorbed in the sight that they only parted for their king when Leon shouted for them to move.

Arthur approached her corpse alone, both Guinevere and Merlin hanging back among the onlookers. When the people saw their king approaching his sister, they hushed, attentions absorbed.

Morgana lay on the ground, partially hidden between the thick tree roots; around her had bloomed a framework of small, white flowers – wood anemone. She was herself dressed in a simple white gown, replacing the various black rags Arthur had seen her wearing for the past few years. Her hair, which had been matted and ill-kempt, was washed, combed, and glossy; it was twisted in a single braid that rested over her left shoulder. Her hands were clasped over her stomach, and her eyes were closed and face relaxed, as though in sleep. As though untouched by death or by any of the past years' sorrow.

Arthur's heart clenched in his breast. He clutched his shirt where it crossed the offending organ and swallowed his emotions.

The care Dragoon had taken to heal Morgana, to restore her to the woman she once was – it was as though he had known Arthur's own thoughts. It did not change the harms she had done, nor did it bring back the lives she destroyed. It did not relieve her of her crimes. Perhaps it changed nothing at all. Yet, Arthur was glad that this was the last image of her his people would have.

_Thank you_, he silently bade the sorcerer.

Morgana had finally found peace.

* * *

The funeral ceremony was held the day following their return to Camelot. During all that time, Morgana's body remained seemingly untouched by death, and Arthur had no doubt it was thanks to the old sorcerer.

Arthur stood with only Guinevere, Gaius, Leon, Gwaine, Percival, and Merlin gathered about him on the shores of the lake that morning. Morgana lay in a small wooden boat, wearing the jewelry that had been kept by dust in her chamber, adorned by the wood anemone and Camelot's wildflowers. The king himself waded into the water to push her boat onto the waves, and he would have fired the flaming arrow if not for his shaking hands. Instead, Leon set the boat aflame, when it was the appropriate distance from the shore.

Arthur had no desire to linger there. The smoke had barely brushed the air when he turned to lead his party back to Camelot. Each of them followed in respectful silence to the horses… each of them, that is, except for Merlin. Arthur was mounted, prepared to leave, but stopped when he saw his manservant gazing after the burning boat.

"Merlin," called the king.

The manservant raised one arm and wiped his face before turning to face them. His eyes were red, his face weakly neutral. He stepped into his saddle and rode to meet his king.

Arthur turned his horse alongside Merlin's. He clapped a hand on the manservant's shoulder and squeezed it firmly, trying to look into Merlin's eyes, though the slighter man refused to meet his gaze. "I know," Arthur said kindly. "She was your friend, too." Merlin only crumpled further at those words.

Arthur sighed and patted his friend's shoulder before leading his steed ahead, knowing there was little words could do to amend what Merlin was feeling. "Come. We must to Camelot." He kicked his mare forward; the others followed solemnly.

At noon, Arthur threw a torch onto a funeral pyre in the central courtyard, stacked high to commemorate the many knights who had died in the battle at Camlann. Though they had won, the loss was tangible. Mothers, wives, sisters, and daughters of the fallen knights were in the yard, wailing and tearing at their hair. The knights' comrades stood by silently, sad for the loss of friends but also thankful it had not been them; they looked quietly at the stones underfoot and sent grateful prayers to the gods.

In the column of smoke that rose into the air, Arthur saw not only the loss of his companions but also the end of an era, one that had begun not with Morgana but with the Purge his father had wreaked on the land thirty years earlier. It was time for the war against magic to end, and it was up to Arthur to bring this new peace to Camelot – true peace, not the suspended fear that the people had lived in during his father's reign.

Never again should he have to burn such a hate-born pyre. No, not at Camelot.

The king observed the mourning from the regents' balcony with a heavy heart. For he had been the man to lead these men to their doom, making him as responsible for their deaths as the Saxons. The hours passed, and the sounds of sorrow faded, the courtyard emptied, and the taverns filled with the living in celebration of the defeat of the enemy and the witch. Arthur's observance turned into vigil as the sun sank in the sky and he refused food, drink, and sleep. Others, friends and family of the fallen, were scattered about the courtyard below, keeping mutual watch over the ashes.

Soon, the stars shined bright in the moonless sky, leaving the courtyard below in shadow.

"You don't have to stay with me," Arthur murmured. His voice was rough from hours of non-use.

His companion shifted on his haunches and said nothing.

"I'm the king, Merlin. It's my burden to bear."

"Don't make me leave, Arthur," said Merlin quietly.

Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled. None responded.

"Something has been weighing on you since Camlann," said Arthur. "Are you going to talk to me about it or not?"

Merlin said nothing. Arthur dropped his head heavily against the wall, resigned again to this barrier he kept hitting with his servant. Gods, but didn't he tell Merlin everything? Yet whenever he tried to get the other man to talk about himself, it was like storming a castle.

Then – "It was me."

Merlin had drawn his knees up to his chest and was resting his chin upon them, staring out into the courtyard. His voice was small, but it carried well enough. "I'm the reason Morgana became like this."

"…What?"

"When Morgause attacked Camelot with the Knights of Medhir, when she enchanted all of Camelot with a sleeping curse… she was using Morgana as an anchor. I realized this, and so… I had no choice. It was the only way to break the enchantment. I poisoned her. I was her friend, and I tried to kill her." He wrapped his arms over his head and buried his face in his knees. "I drove her away. She should have been able to talk to me, but I convinced her that there was no one she could rely on but Morgause. I drove her to it. And because of me… so many died."

The king's breath caught in his throat. He recalled Morgana lying limp in her sister's arms; he also recalled the overwhelming fatigue that had been ensnaring him as he fought the knights, the despair that had taken his heart. What would he have done? For Camelot, for the old king, could he have killed Morgana? Would he even have been able to choose, or would he have doomed them all through inaction?

"If you had not made that choice," he said at last, "Camelot would not be standing today. Merlin… you were very brave."

At those words, sobs wracked the young man, muffled in the folds of his clothes. His skinny shoulders shook erratically.

What a world they had come from, thought the king, that it had forced even Merlin to take a life. Arthur lifted his face to the sky. A tear ran down either side of his face, invisible in the darkness.

"I don't blame you," Arthur whispered, unsure if Merlin could even hear him. The fault was not Merlin's, or at least, not Merlin's alone. They all shouldered the blame. In a way, it was a relief to _Arthur_, to know that someone else felt _guilt_ for the outcome of her life. "It would have happened anyway. There is no way it wouldn't have. But I will make sure it does not and will not ever happen again. I swear it."

When Merlin calmed down, Arthur continued. "I have blindly put my trust in people over the years - in Morgana, in Agravaine, in Mordred. Even in my father. You always told me when to be cautious, even if I ignored you. I see now I should have listened, that you are one of the only people I can trust. I just mean to say that I'm sorry you didn't feel like you could trust me with this. And... thank you... for telling me. I'm glad there are no more secrets between us."

"Arthur, I..." Merlin began, but his voice trailed into the dark.

They did not speak again until morning, when they rose together with creaking bones and baggy eyes to go inside the castle. On the topic of Merlin's hand in Morgana's loss of innocence – they did not speak of it again.

* * *

_***uhttid – **"the time before dawn"; OE_

_****wood anemone – **"From the Greek anemos, which means "wind". The flowers were thought to have sprung from Venus's tears over the dead Adonis, "where a tear has dropped, a wind-flower blows". It is also associated with sadness as in England where it was thought that it sprung from the blood of Danes slain in battle." - Medford Leas Residents Association, "A Guide to the Wildflowers of Medford Leas and Barton Arboretum"_

_**A/N: First, thank you, thank you, thank you, everyone, for your beyond-positive response to the first chapter. I literally jumped in the air, squealing with joy, when the follows and favorites and even a couple of community adds were popping up in my email. I'm just blown away. MUCH FEELING.**_

_**This story was inspired by one part of a 2006 Bollywood movie called "Rab Ne Bana Di Jodi" ("A Match Made by God"). The main character, Surinder Sahni, is literally willing to give up his entire self for the girl he loves, all so that she will be happy and able to laugh again. That devotion struck a chord in me, and as I wrote this story, it gradually started drawing on that. I won't say anymore, to avoid spoilers. **_

_**Now my writing these days: I've been taking classes in Old English for the last few months, and right now I'm in a class where we are doing nothing but translating Beowulf. So far, we're about a third of the way through (1,048 lines as of today). That said, it's having a real effect my writing style. I hope not negatively. The only real problem is that I may start using Old English words because there simply isn't a good Modern English equivalent. For example, in this chapter, I use the word "**_**uhttid**_**", which means "the time before dawn". This period is often depicted as the darkest time of the night and a time of sorrow – there's even a compound word, "**_**uhtcearu**_**", which means "sorrow before dawn". It's that connotation I was going for when the soldier found Morgana's body. **_

_**And now, life, and the impact that has on the next story update! So tomorrow I'm flying out of state to interview at the Japanese consulate for a job, which, if they like me, will allow me to spend the next five years living and working in Japan. When I get back, I have to deal with things like being my university's soran bushi captain (there's a performance Friday), working on my senior thesis, and tutoring international students in English. I may not have a lot of time to write. Therefore,**_

_**Next update: … Tues, March 4…? **_


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